


Let's Misbehave

by Operamatic



Category: Motorcity
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Gen, Prohibition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 18:04:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/600617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Operamatic/pseuds/Operamatic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I was seventeen when I chopped off my hair at the chin and started running moonshine for Jacob’s Burner Boys."</p><p>1920's Prohibition AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let's Misbehave

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



_There’s something wild about you child, it’s so contagious!_

_Let’s be outrageous!  Let’s misbehave!_

I)

A dashboard on a Ford Model A Tudor will tell you a lot about the person who drives it.  Most people don’t pay much attention to the dash, they’re focused on the wheels, the wood paneling, the shiny handles and knobs and whether they can afford the newest car on the market.

But the dash is like a mirror of the driver.  Some people’s dashes collect dust and debris, strewn with strands of hair, stray leaves, a crumpled note or a forgotten glove.  The Rolls that my Daddy used to own, back when Mama was alive, it always had our picture there.  It was a nice picture, in a little leather frame and propped up for me and Mama to see.  There’d been flowers sometimes too, left there for Mama to find.  That was a long time ago, before he got elected Mayor of Detroit.

Mike’s dashboard was always spotless, wiped down and polished ‘til it shined.  He loved that car, called it Mutt because of the growl the engine made.  Mutt could outrun any other car on the road, too.  It had a straight-six engine like something from a nightmare, parts that made no sense, extra pistons running sideways, and an exhaust that churned out dark oily smoke.  The back had a rumble seat that opened up for cargo and a mount for a tommy gun though I never saw Mike use it.  He wanted his speed to do the fighting for him.

Those were the modifications, along with a bright green paint job, that Chuckie No-Eyes had done special, just for him.  He and Mike were “blood-brothers” you see.

Far as I could tell, they’d been saving each other’s skins for years, ever since Mike quit the force and moved out to the slums where the kids, the poor folks, and the immigrants had to fend for themselves.  Gangs were always warring over that area, not to mention the Duke of Detroit and his mob connections trying to get a protection racket going while they supplied guns and liquor to those same gangs behind the scenes.  Then you had the feds and the cops busting up groceries and laundromats searching for hooch while business bigwigs and property developers were meeting in the back rooms of fancy hotels with a tumbler of bourbon in each hand.

Mike told me once how much he’d longed to be a police officer as a kid; how much he’d looked up to his hero, some brilliant Lieutenant who’d rose through the ranks and was holding public office by the time Mike had signed up.  I found out years later that man had been my father and a part of me died inside.  I knew then what Mike had lost that day, standing in line with his peers in their nicely pressed uniforms, when he saw my father stand before the courthouse and call out for innocent peoples’ blood.  I knew because that was when I lost faith in him too, right before he ordered a family’s house burned down on suspicion of distilling alcohol.

That was when I first started to entertain the notion, the foolish, daring notion, that maybe I could help make a change.

I was seventeen when I chopped off my hair at the chin and started running moonshine for Jacob’s Burner Boys.

 

II)

“What do you wanna go downtown for?” Claire had asked me while we were away at school that May.  The flowers hadn’t bloomed yet; it’d been a late winter and an even later spring.  She was dressed for the cold, wrapped up in white felt with a cute cloche.  I think it had purple flowers.

“You know why,” I said, biting my lip, “I’ve been hearing stories about the folks down there and I want to…no, I have to see it for myself.  I can’t keep waiting around for things to change on their own!”

 “Julieee!” she grabbed my hand and held it close between us, “You are my best, most wonderful friend, so I think I’m allowed to be worried!  What happens if someone finds out you’re Mayor Kane’s daughter and _kidnaps_ you?  Or worse!”

I couldn’t say I hadn’t considered it.  My father was one of the biggest Prohibition supporters in Detroit, which meant he had enemies.  Word was he had single-handedly gotten the bill passed in Michigan, some said through rather immoral methods.  Most people said that actually.

Daddy was a firm believer in leading by example.  When the bootleggers started cropping up in our county he made a big show of hunting them down, aided by his ties to the police force and a great deal of influence on the city council.  He made public addresses, met several times a week with the local authorities, took all his personal reserves from our house and had them poured out and burned in the street.

Then when the gin races and the border running started, he blamed the new Ford models, with their big engines and better mileage.  Then he started blaming car manufacturers in general, convinced there were conspiracies happening all across Michigan.  Within a month he had the Rolls Royce from my childhood impounded.  We moved into a townhouse in the city and I started riding my bicycle everywhere.  Daddy was lobbying that year to have civilian automobiles permanently outlawed in Detroit.  He cited the chaos caused by the moonshiners and their hotrods; the Amazons, The Skylark Five, and especially the Burner Boys.

“My City requires control!” he’d shouted from his podium.  He held on to it like a pulpit, and shook like an old fire and brimstone spieler, promising damnation to all those who defied him, “I will NOT REST!  I WILL NOT SLEEP!  I say, if those vile criminals are so keen to break the law, don’t be surprised when the LAW! BREAKS! THEM!”

I was told by his aides to sit behind him, to wear modest skirts and keep my hair tied back, and to never say anything to reporters.  They knew my “radical” leanings.  Watching my father up there I remembered how, when he’d campaigned all those years ago, he would look back to me and wink when he’d said something clever. 

He never looked at me anymore.

But my family problems weren’t why I finally decided to sneak out of my room and hitch the trolley downtown, or at least not the only reason.  I’d been feeling it a long time, a deep dissatisfaction in my gut, an anger that had started boiling over whenever my father spoke of the moonshiners, the gin runners, the street kids with their shark smiles and pretty girls with beaded dresses who were out there living and fighting while I was stuck inside either a classroom or a sewing room.

All I knew was that it was a different life, a free kind of life.  The kind of life where you could listen to jazz if you wanted and dance if you wanted, where you could drink a damn whiskey and spit like a man and no one would tell you that you were wrong for it.  And also a life where you could stand up for folks who needed help, _really_ needed it, and change their lives for some kind of better.

And more than anything, though it might have been selfish of me, I loved cars.  Maybe it was the Rolls when I was a girl that started it, or maybe the way cops’ Packards would gleam when I walked past the station.  But there was the dirt too; dark grease on your hands, the smell of rubber in the tires, the gunshot sound of the exhaust firing up.  I wanted that.  I wanted to see all those metal parts that all fit together like notes to a song.  I wanted to know all of it, and more than anything I wanted to hold a steering wheel just once.

And maybe I wanted to misbehave a little too.

 

III)

The first thing I ever noticed about Mike Chilton was that he had a thing for chewing toothpicks.  He never told me why, but I got the feeling it was to keep the older guys from harping on him for not accepting cigarettes.  You see Mike was a teetotaler.  Didn’t smoke, didn’t cuss, and he certainly didn’t drink.  It’s what made him such a reliable driver, knowing that he’d never skim off the top of the haul no matter how good.

But every man’s got a vice, and I could tell deep underneath Mike was the worst kind of addict.  Mike was a danger junkie.  He got his highs off gambling with his own skin.  He could be the sweetest boy you’d ever met, the kind your mother would love, the kind that would offer to fix your sink and cook you dinner before you even got him home (even if Mike was the worst cook I’d ever met aside from Jacob).  But the minute we were screaming down the back roads with six dozen bottles of whiskey in the boot it was like he was a man possessed and the Devil himself was gripping that wheel.

I always got the feeling Mike was chasing after something on those rides.  Some kind of ideal, a freedom he hadn’t yet managed to latch himself onto.

When I first met him it was at Jacob’s Garage.   It was a little juke joint outside of the city on the river, and looked more like a warehouse than a restaurant.  The old man who owned the place, Jacob, sold strange foreign foods that smelled like horse droppings and looked even worse.  He was always bragging how healthy his recipes were, saying they’d clean out your insides faster than a prune with a scouring brush (he was probably right). 

But I had heard enough from the cops and the flappers alike to know what was really going on out there in the mud flats near Wyandotte.

Jacob was a brewer, and even though his food was terrible, his moonshine was a hit in the speakeasies.  He had connections as far out as St. Louis, and some relative in Canada willing to sneak in extra stock over the borders for the liquor he couldn’t provide himself.

And to protect and distribute his products, Jacob had created the Burner Boys.

Now word on the street was that the Burner Boys were a different breed from these other gangs you heard so much about.  Their job wasn’t to intimidate or to enforce; they moved what you wanted from Jacob’s to where you needed it.  Simple.  Efficient.

Most of all though you’d never catch the Burner Boys stowing away their cache in the basement of some poor family who couldn’t speak a lick of English.  You’d never see them shooting up some other gang’s establishment.  And you’d never ever catch them ratting on anyone.  They had a code, and with it they garnered respect.

So out of all the gangs and speakeasies, out of all the mobsters and gunmen and bootleggers and cons, I found myself standing on the doorstep of the Burner Boy’s home base, my hair still wet from the rain and my head still light from the bob I’d given myself with kitchen scissors just two hours before.

I knocked.  The door was sheet metal and rusted all over and for a brief second I was afraid the place really was abandoned.

And the first face I saw when the door opened, surrounded in the soft golden light from the interior, was Mike Chilton’s, toothpick balanced between his teeth.

“Huh,” He said.

Then he smiled, and I knew I was in the right place.

 

IV)

The Burner Boys were a small team, a group of four young men and three cars.  Jacob had an old milk truck he used for making border trips, but it was too big and conspicuous to use in the city.  So instead the guys handled any jobs that required speed and skill.

Mike was a natural born leader.  He radiated charisma like a tinsel town star, like Valentino in _The Sheik_ or Eddie Lyons in the old magazine clippings my mother had saved when I was a child.  He smiled and you wanted him to smile forever, and when he spoke you couldn’t help but listen.  He was strong and he was brave.  He’d have made a great policeman.

That was also why it always took you a moment to notice Chuckie No-Eyes standing right beside him, and truly a more different pair you’d never find.  Chuck was a meek man.  Tall and gangly, he never fit into his suits right, the cuffs always riding high on his long arms.  His hair was shaggy and no matter how much pomade he tried it always fell into his face, hence the nickname “No-Eyes”.  Apparently he’d started out doing mods and repairs for some gang his mother owed.  He’d been doing work for them and sleeping in packing crates when Mike stepped onto the scene and rescued him.  He’d called it a “prison break”.

Ever since then Chuck was like Mike’s shadow, though he was taller by half a foot.  He radiated anxiety, always fidgeting, tapping a foot, mumbling under his breath as he listed off all the reasons why he was certain they would all die this time around.  He was obnoxious in a lot of ways but I couldn’t help but like him.  He was endearingly sweet, if frustrating, and unlike Mike who seemed courageous to the point of recklessness, Chuck was pragmatic and _very_ smart.  They made a good team; they knew each other better than friends, better than brothers even.  I got the feeling sometimes when I was with them over the years that neither would have been as good a person without the other.  They brought out the best in each other.

On the flipside you had Texas and Dutch.

Texas was kid raised in the slums.  He’d worked for nearly every gang in town as hired muscle, and that was pretty much the only thing he was good for.  Texas wasn’t smart by any stretch of the imagination.  But he took orders (most of the time) and was fiercely loyal (most of the time), and he could punch a man harder than a gunshot and take a beating like a man made of bricks.  I ignored him most nights, he irritated me with his pompousness, but he could make me laugh and there were days in our business where you just needed to laugh yourself stupid.

Texas drove a big flashy Cadillac, something he’d lifted ages ago and saw fit to make his own.  It wasn’t inconspicuous by any means, but it was reliable and sturdy, good for knocking over police Packards and driving away without so much as a dent.

Then you had Dutch Gordy, a city kid from New York.  He’d moved out to Detroit on some freight train looking for inspiration.  Dutch was an artist, a poet, a musician and a genius if I’d ever met one.  He became one of my best friends.  Dutch painted every inch of the Garage in weird avante-garde designs, which were subject to his whims and changed weekly.  He played a mean trumpet too.  He taught me how to jitterbug.

Dutch’s roadster was one he’d built himself, a one-seater like you saw on a racetrack, with a bullet shaped nose and wheels that stuck out so it looked like some strange kind of bug.  He was always refitting it with new gadgets like a mad scientist.  Between the paint and the oil his sleeves were permanently stained, so he always kept them rolled up to the elbow.

All these boys I got to know well, they became my family over the years, and I loved them for all their charms and faults, even when both got us into heaps of trouble, though I was just as guilty as the rest of them.

That first night though they all looked at me like I was some kind of specter or perhaps a grenade with the pin just pulled.  They were waiting for me to do something terrible.

“She says her name’s Julie,” Mike said, ushering me into the warmth of their home.  His hand was gentle and warm on my back, and his smile still hadn’t gone away, even as he asked tentatively, “What do you think Jacob?”

“She’s a little scrawny,” the old man observed.  His voice was like a cat gargling nails, but it wasn’t unkind.  It felt like he was more worried for my sake than he was critical, and he pinched at my small wrist for a moment before speaking again, “If she’s going to stay here she’s going to need to eat more, and get some muscle on these noodle arms.”

“But she _ain’t_ stayin’ here,” Texas had said from across the room.  He was sitting with his feet up on the counter, arms crossed.  He sneered as he spoke, “She’s just gonna slip up and rat us out, she’s got no place with us men doing our _man’s_ work.  Watch, she breaks a nail and we all get caught,” He was glaring daggers at me and I glared right back.  I didn’t back down from a challenge.  Ever.

But then Dutch mentioned solemnly, “And if we get caught there won’t even be a trial.  We’ll all be in a noose, or worse, the electric chair.”  As if on cue, the lightbulb above us all flickered, the power this far out was faulty and the wires had already worn down.

“I’m not gonna slip up,” I grumbled angrily.  My hands were clenched in fists and the fuse that had been running out ever since I’d left my fathers was finally reaching its end.  I began to shout, “I’m not some dumb kid who can’t work.  I’m quick and I’m connected and I’m not afraid of _anything_!”  I said this all without wavering, even though I knew deep down that I was scared as all hell, especially if anyone found out who I was, let alone what my father would do.  I could only hope they wouldn’t call my bluff.  And perhaps out of sheer stubbornness and defiance, I decided to add, “Not to mention, I’m the best driver you’ll ever meet this side of Lake Erie.”

They laughed.

“Last we checked,” Texas said smugly, “That title was all Mike’s, tied with yours truly a’ course!”

“Hey, hey now guys, there’s no reason to make bad blood between us,” Mike tried his best to mediate.

“Now that’s a sight I’d love to see, someone who could outdrive Mike!?  HA!” Jacob was slapping his knee, chortling.  I wanted so very much to like these men, but at that moment I could have slaughtered the lot of them.

“She has a point, in a way,” someone said.  We all turned and that was the first time I noticed Chuckie No-Eyes, all folded in on himself, hands tucked into his armpits unobtrusively.

“Wait, what?!” Mike said, eyes wide.  The toothpick fell from his mouth.

“Well, uh…Mike…you’re the best driver I’ve…really all of us…have ever seen but…okay look you’re skilled and you’ve got me navigating as best I can but the last few jobs we scraped through on dumb luck!  I mean not…dumb just…well we’ve been lucky…BARELY, and uh…I mean well who’s to say she’s not as good?”

“Now Chuckles let’s not get ahead of ours-”

“Or…gosh, I mean…who’s to say she’s not better?”

“Bwuh…CHUCK!!!”

I was starting to like this kid.

“I mean it’s a bit unlikely since she’s a girl-”

It was short lived.  Thankfully Mike held me back before I broke the dumb kid’s nose.

 

V)

I was allowed to work for them on a trial basis.

Mike wasn’t thrilled with me for my outburst, but he fought for my right to be there, bless him.  Despite his somewhat hurt pride, Mike was the only one who didn’t feel I needed to prove myself.  Dutch and Texas wanted to test my loyalty, Jacob my skills, and Chuck my effectiveness.  Mike was the only one who seemed more than happy to welcome me into the fold.

I’d attend classes during the day, then sneak away in the evenings under the guise of a new ladies’ club I’d joined.  I’d switch into my ragged street clothes and ride my poor overworked bike all the way out to the riverfront for my night duties.  The liquor business was a nocturnal one, and at sundown I was arriving just as the boys were waking up.

Most of the time I was loading and unloading cargo, taking stock in large ledgers, and on occasion making notes of Jacob’s complicated brewing process.  I also was put in charge of cleaning, waxing, and polishing the cars.  In retrospect it was good work for me to learn, but at the time I was exhausted and infuriated.

Every night Mike would clap me on the shoulder, say to me “How’s it going Jules?”, and nudge my chin when I admitted to being less than thrilled.

“I know Jules, you wanna get out there.  Make a difference, fight the good fight.  You’ll get there.  These guys are protective is all.  I know they’ve got nothing to worry about, you’re a natural.”

I smiled, feeling warm all over, “You really think that?”

“Well I mean you’ve got one heck of a temper you need to work on, like I mean a _doozy_ of a temper.  A real humdinger of a-” he paused and coughed, avoiding my scowl, “But uh, hrm, well if you stay cool and keep at it, you’ll be in a driver’s seat yet.”

I finally got my chance one hot night in June.

“It’s a simple job,” Jacob told me that evening, wiping down his bar while I picked around the gummy stew he’d offered me ( _for energy_ he’d said), “We really only need two guys on it, easy drop off in the hills near Pointe Mouillee.  It’d be a good chance for you to learn the ropes.”

“I thought that’s what I was doing here,” I said sullenly, motioning over to the barrels I’d just finished sealing up.  My fingers were all burned from the hot wax we used to seal up the lids.

“There’s a big difference between being working a storeroom and making a run Calico,” Jacob had taken to calling me that, said I was sweet as peaches but I had claws too.  I liked it.  “I want to know that you can perform under pressure, that you can spot a good deal gone sour or fix a busted axel when you’re wheels up in a ditch somewhere.”

He looked up at me then, pocketing his cleaning rag, and reached across the bar to pat me on the head.

“You’re a good girl, Calico, strong and quick, but if I’m gonna put you out there I gotta know you won’t get hurt…and that my boys won’t get hurt neither.”  His hand was firm, but his eyes warm and welcoming.  I looked away.

“I’ll do my best,” I whispered.

“Do better than your best, kid.  Here.”  He pulled something out from under the bar, a lumpy shape wrapped up in butcher paper.  I took it in my hands, gingerly, and felt the solid weight of it.

“It’s my old service revolver, Smith & Wesson.” He said, crossing his arms as I unwrapped it.  It was beautiful, even if it was an older model.  He’d kept it immaculately clean over the years, the smooth black metal seemed to soak up all the dull neon light.  “It’s nothing too special, it ain’t gonna win you a fight with a tommy or a shotgun, but if you’re as good a shot as you’ve told me, _multiple times_ ,” I blushed, remembering how I’d bragged about my sharpshooting training, “I reckon you could do some good with it.”

“When were you on the force, Jacob?” I asked quietly, trying to remember exactly how old the old man really was.

“Oh ages ago,” he scoffed, going back to his cleaning, “Back when Mayor Kane and me were beat partners, before he sold his soul and this damn town went belly up.  Power changes a man, Calico Cat, don’t forget that.  Don’t let your soul get taken by all this dirty business.”

I managed to swallow, despite the lump in my throat the size of a baseball.  My stomach felt weak and pained, and I gripped the gun a little more carefully to my chest before setting it down to finish eating.

“I won’t, sir.”

 

VI)

It was a humid night, a summer storm had passed through that evening making everything sticky and damp.  My bangs were sticking to my forehead, slick with sweat.  We were in Mutt, Mike’s Model A, perched in the forested area behind a billboard advertising Ovaltine.  It was good cover with a clear shot to the highway, and just enough light to make out who might be coming up through the trees.

I was still on my trial run, so Mike had politely requested I stay in the back.  Problem was the rumble seat was packed tight with several barrels of gin and a crow bar.  I, being a rather inconvenient passenger, had resigned to crouching on top of them.  My cap brushed the roof of the car, and my knees were jutting out between the two front seats.

Chuck was occupying the seat I’d hoped to claim.  Apparently he didn’t do any driving of his own and Mike never liked doing a job without him there.  He was busy charting their next route, making notes in red pencil on a worn map that had been folded and refolded so many times it was coming apart at every corner.

Mike on the other hand, was slumped in his seat, tapping out a distracted rhythm on the rim of the window.  He rolled his toothpick around on his teeth, bored out of his mind.

“This doesn’t sit right with me.”

“Mikey it’s a routine drop-off; we’ve done this a million times.”

“Yeah but it’s the Duke this time.  We never work with the Duke, you know why,” he grumbled.  If he’d been a dog his hackles would’ve been raised on end.  I spied his sour expression in the rearview, and it was the grimmest I’d ever seen Mike, all doom and gloom with none of the usual cheerfulness I’d gotten used to.

“Well I’m not a fan of him either,” Chuck said, making a long arc with his pencil before it tore through the weak paper and he yelped under his breath.  He sighed and started folding the map up, defeated.  “But look if he says he’s willing to make a truce and play by our rules for once, then that’s a good thing!  It means people are really listening to you!”

Mike huffed through his nose, still scowling, before he caught my eye in the mirror.  I stuck my tongue out at him on impulse, and he snickered and gave me a wink.  I looked away quickly, shifting to see out the back window, but deep in my gut I was happy to have lightened his mood.

About fifteen minutes had passed and there were still no headlights coming from the highway or the dirt roads.  I worked up my courage and asked, “So why exactly are we doing this drop-off in the middle of nowhere?  I thought you delivered to the speakeasies in town!”

“Nah,” Chuck smiled meekly over his shoulder, “See there’s joints that we’re welcome at, like The Skylark – uh Rayon’s a friend of Mike’s,” Mike nodded an acknowledgment, “And you know Antonio’s and there’s a few others where we’ve got connections.  But when we do exchanges out here it’s because uh…well you see there’s too much competition going on between a lot of the gangs for us to just give ‘em liquor on their doorstep!  If the Duke saw us delivering to the Amazons, or the Terra Club intercepted our shipment to Cablertown, we’d have our cargo hijacked and get shot fulla holes all over their petty rivalries!”

“But they all _order_ from you!” I said, surprised.  I’d had no idea how much the gang politics had been affecting the boys’ business.  I’d always assumed their biggest problem was the cops.

“Yeah but they don’t know _who else_ is ordering from us,” Mike supplied, “We’re an equal opportunity operation Jules.  We believe in customer confidentiality,”

“Spoken like a true salesmen,” I teased, reaching from my perch to pinch him hard on the back of the neck.

“Gnah!” he winced away and the three of us shared a good laugh alone in those few moments of peace.

Then, somewhere in the dark of the trees, came a loud rumble and the sound of branches snapping.

“Ah!  Shhhh, hush up guys!” Chuck waved his hands around before freezing.

Everything was still for a moment.  In the suffocating heat of the car all I could hear was Mike’s steady breathing and the tiny whines emanating from Chuck’s throat.  A bead of sweat dripped down the side of my face and onto my clenched hand.

“Hey,” I whispered, “When you meet clients up here…how many cars do they usually bring?”

“One…maybe two…nothing that’ll catch attention,” Mike murmured back, his eyes still trained forward, his hands firm on the wheel.

“Well, I’m definitely hearing more than one or two engines, Mike,” I said, breathless.  I’d learned to tell engines apart over the last few weeks, listening alone in the garage for the telltale growls of the boys’ cars returning home.

“There’s gotta be at least six, Mikey!” Chuck squeaked.  He was gripping onto Mike’s tensed arm.

“Yeah,” was all he said.

The rumbling got louder.  We could see the glimmer of headlights through the trees.

“Mike,” I called out suddenly, spying something through the back window.  I laid down on my stomach to see better, “Mike what kind of car does the Duke usually drive?”

“Uh…red Cadillac limousine, why?”

“Cuz all I’m seeing is a fleet of black Packards and there’s cops in every single one!”

“GUN IT MIKEY!!!” Chuck screamed, but Mike was already putting all his weight on the gas.

We rocketed out from the bushes, clipping the side of the billboard.  Sparks flew up from the hood, the engine running overtime.  The Packards streamed after us, flanking us on each side.  A few got caught up by the treeline, but still more made it over the grass and onto the asphalt of the road.  I counted nearly eight cars, and I had no doubt that every officer had a loaded gun ready to fire.

“That rat,” Mike grit through his teeth as he weaved across the road, trying to find means of escape, “That dirty rat he sold us out to the COPS!”

“The Duke really has it out for us this time-OH SWEET MOTHER OF GRAVY!” Chuck screamed as we swerved around a delivery truck turning onto the road.  My view pitched sideways and I slammed into the side of the car.  Mike nearly stood up on the gas and used his other foot to slam down on the middle pedal, shifting suddenly into neutral so that, as we spun past the truck, we began to speed in reverse.

By the time I’d righted myself I had a clear view of the road ahead speeding underneath us.  The highway was usually deserted by this time of night, but I could see well enough the line of headlights parked nearly thirty yards away.

It was a police blockade.

“OH NO, OH NO, WHY WHY WHYYYYY?!” Chuck called out, and the next thing I heard was a deafening BLAM as one of the side windows and the rear both shattered.  Something hot nearly singed by ear, and the sudden burst of wind ripped my hat off.  When I looked up I could see the side of my right arm was bleeding.

“Jules are you okay!?  What the heck was _that?_ ” Mike called out, distressed.

“I’m fine-” I started, but was interrupted by Chuck’s piercing wail.

“SHOTGUNS!  THEY’RE USING A SHOTGUN WITH THE BARREL SAWED OFF, MIKEY WHAT’S WRONG WITH THESE PEOPLE?” Chuck sounded like he was about to have an apoplexy.  He had chunks of his shaggy blond hair fisted in his hands, and for the first time I saw his eyes, wide and blue and terrified.  He had a gash across his right cheek, and Mike yanked a rag out from under his seat to hand to him.

“Keep it together Chuckles, Julie!” He leaned back and I snapped to attention, meeting his eyes, “Julie what do you see out there?!”

“They’ve got us blocked off Mike, we’ve got to find a way through-”

“No chance, I can’t risk the two of you getting hurt,”

“Mike, we signed up for this, you don’t need to-”

“Just hang on to something and let me drive!”  He banked hard to the left so that we were parallel to the blockade, and began driving towards the edge of the road.

“Mike it’s all marsh out there, we’re going to get stuck and crash!” I called out, remembering in terror Jacob’s words of being caught wheels up in the mud.

“Exactly, they’ll come for the car and the booze and you two can make a break for it!”

“Mikey, what about you?” Chuck said, his voice suddenly dropping an octave.  Mike was silent for a moment, his eyes darting between our pursuers on one side and the wall of Packards on another.  We had maybe a minute before they reached us.

“Someone’s gotta draw their fire.”

In my mind I saw him revving down through the dirt and slime, saw him jumping from the window when the car would eventually tip, its equilibrium shot.  I saw him running and crumpling and dying like some animal being put down.  Dying for his far-off impossible ideals with a smile twitching at his lips.

“TO HELL WITH THAT!” I shouted.  Then I jumped across the heap of barrels, through the space between the front seats, and I socked Mike Chilton clean across the jaw.

I hadn’t meant to knock him out, but he folded like a wet towel, and suddenly Chuck and I had a dead weight in the driver’s seat and about three dozen cops about to turn us into swiss cheese.

“Switch with me,” I said, suddenly gripped by a terrible purpose.  Chuck stared at me like I’d grown an extra head, but when I snarled (and it really was a snarl, like a tiger or a lion would sound) he set to work, scrambling into the rumble seat while I squeezed into Mike’s lap.  It was awkward and too tight a fit, but it was all I could think of.

I held onto the wheel, felt my way along the pedals which were partially obscured by Mike’s shoes, and eyeballed the shift trying desperately to remember how Mike made this thing go.  It was my first time in a driver’s seat.

“What are you going to do?!” He called out.

“Improvise,” I said.  He groaned in agony and gripped the sides of the car.

 

VII)

What I needed was a spark, that’s all.  I hauled the wheel to the left again, spinning us in a near circle back towards the north end of the highway and running along the farthest edge of the road, our wheels skimming the ridge between asphalt and mud.  Some of the cars that had been pursuing us were caught up with the now overturned delivery truck.  Grain was spilled across the highway, and our only escape was being covered by several Packards turned sideways, the cops in them out and kneeling behind their doors.  The maniac with the shotgun was sitting atop his hood with his hat tipped back like a damn cowboy.

“There’s nowhere to go Chilton!  Come out with your hands up and we might let your friends go!”

I got the feeling that, had Mike been conscious, he probably would’ve taken that offer, even if it was a load of crap.  I eased on the gas, as if I was going to stop, but whispered to Chuck under my breath.

“When I give the signal I want you to drop the load onto the highway.”

“Are. You. NUTS?!” Chuck said, twitching as he did so, “What good will that do?  Invite them for a DRINK!?”

“No, we’re gonna start a diversion, now hold onto something, and for god’s sake pick up that crowbar and make yourself useful.” As I said all this, I pulled Jacob’s Smith & Wesson from my boot, and rolled the magazine so that the few bullets I’d managed to load were lined up with the barrel.

Like I said before, Chuck was smart, a tactical marvel when the chips were down.  Which was probably why he knew immediately what I was thinking, and let out a sobbing groan.

“I hope this works, otherwise we’re going to be less than grease on this pavement.”

“Just ask yourself Chuckie, ‘what would Mike do?’”

“Well right now he’d probably say he’s got a monster headache, but he’s still out cold.  Watch out for the spit.” He said as a trail of drool from Mike’s slack mouth dripped down the back of my neck.  I cringed and slammed the car into reverse like I’d seen Mike do.

“NOW NOW NOW!” I shouted, as Chuck levered the barrels through the shattered rear window and let them crash along the pavement as I swerved, gin spilling everywhere from ruptured lids and shattered planks.  We made a long arc, my arms burning with the effort of turning a wheel I’d seen Mike spin with one hand.  The breaks screamed as I rode them, and Mutt began to tip dangerously off the right side wheels.  We were almost forty-five degrees to the road, and I could see the whirring, pockmarked asphalt lining up faster and faster to my window.

“THEY’RE ALL OUT!” Chuck appeared suddenly on my left.

“Good.” I said, and banked the other way so Mutt slammed back onto all four wheels with a shudder.  I lined up my sights with the revolver (a pittance of a thing compared to the cops’ newer, bigger guns), and leaned out the driver’s side window facing back, “Hold his leg on the gas and pray I’m a good shot.”

“I thought you _were_ a good shot!” Chuck screamed, pushing Mike’s big foot down hard onto the pedal.  I shrugged and made a face, “ _You’re_ the one that told us that!”

“I also told you I knew how to drive!” I called.  Chuck looked ready to puke.

We sped away from the blockade, which was revving its engines and trying to follow us.  I peered down the small sight of the revolver, remembering the way I’d been trained in sharpshooting practice.

I took a deep breath.

The gun jerked in my hand, the bullet sailed through the air, going low to the ground (though I couldn’t see it), and blew out the front tire of the closest police car.

The Packard swerved sideways, crashing through broken chunks of barrel and a river of hooch, colliding with its partners who’d been trying to maintain a solid line.

Another round of shotgun fire clipped off both our side mirrors as I ducked back inside.  Chuck was praying with his eyes squeezed shut.  I held my breath.

Somewhere in the pileup something must have lit, or collided, or maybe someone had been smoking a cigar, I don’t know.

But all I needed was a spark.

The gin lit up on the road, enveloping the Packards while the cops inside scrambled to get free of their vehicles.  A fuel tank must’ve leaked because one of them went up in a fireball that I’m sorry to say I never got the chance to see.  I veered off the road into the mud and hydroplaned sideways right past the other cop cars.  Mister Shotgun, I could see now, was some wild-eyed Irish kid, red hair made even redder by the fire.  He was furious.  He held up his shotgun, eyes trained on me through Mutt’s cracked and grimy windshield.  I saw his arm jerk as he pulled the trigger.

It was out of rounds.

I started laughing, whooping as I swerved back onto the road and pushed Mutt to her fastest speed.

Chuck looked at me like I was either a monster or an angel, I couldn’t tell which.

“How fast does she go, Chuckie?” I asked pleasantly, the police cars too busy trying to save their men and douse the flames to follow us.

“A-about a hundred miles an hour after a tune up?  Maybe uh…maybe faster if she’s got nothing weighing her down in the back.

“Can you make me one that goes even _faster_?” I asked.  I hadn’t meant to sound so giggly, but it came out like a girl asking for a new puppy, all trilling and sweet.

“I…I’m not sure,” he said, actually intrigued by the possibility, “I’d have to experiment with the structure and the engine weight…maybe put it in a lighter frame and build the engine in the back but- WAIT A MINUTE!”

I looked over at him, now nursing his cut cheek, blood smeared and drying across his freckles.

“How did you know that would work?  With the gin and the pileup?  I mean one tire isn’t going to tip over a car unless you’ve got an idiot driving it,” He said it in a droll voice, and I got a distinct impression that Chuck didn’t care for the way cops handled their cars.

“Well I uh,” I started, my face growing hot as I pulled onto a familiar dirt road that would lead us along the railroad under some tree cover.  We could take it all the way to the docks by Trenton and then make a straight shot back to Wyandotte and the Garage.  I swallowed hard and continued.

“I was sort of aiming for the uh…the fuel tank.  I thought maybe it would explode.  I just wanted to get rid of the gin cuz it was weighing us down…but I uh…I missed and hit the tire…”

Chuck’s mouth was wide open.  He pushed his hair up so that I could see the nasty look he was giving me.

“That is the stupidest thing…I have EVER HEARD!!! AND I RIDE AROUND WITH MIKE!”

“Hey it worked didn’t it?”

“A FUEL TANK DOESN’T JUST EXPLODE JULIE, WHERE DID YOU EVEN GET THAT IDEA?!”

“Well SOMEONE won’t let me see how his DUMB CUSTOM ENGINES WORK,” I shouted back, “HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW!?”

“Uuuuugh too loud,” A voice groaned behind me.

It was then that I remembered Mike was still in the car with us.  And I was sitting on him.

“Oh mother of mercy,” I gulped and stopped the car, trying to wriggle out from Mike’s lap until I was perched in between the seats awkwardly, “I’m sorry I’m so sorry Mike-”

“What hit me?” he asked, rubbing his sore jaw and wincing.  He rattled it around as if he thought a tooth might be loose.

“That would have been Julie here,” Chuck pointed at me, his voice droll.  I scowled at him and he pulled his hand away.

“Jeez, Jules, I didn’t see that coming,” Mike said, blinking a few times and running a hand through his hair, “Dang what happened back there?”

“I saved our skins is what,” I grumbled, crossing my arms.  I flinched when I touched the gash that was clotting along my right wrist.  I’d forgotten all about it.

Mike was quiet for a moment.  He glanced at Chuck first, then around at the damage to Mutt, a sad look on his face.  He regarded me, noted the cuts on my arm and the gunpowder burns from where I’d been clutching the revolver too tight.

Then he smiled, and started to laugh.

“Well then thank heavens for your temper, Jules, or else we might all be dead!” He clapped me on the back and I felt my entire body heave a sigh of relief.

“Mutt’s going to need major repairs, Mikey,” Chuck said conversationally after we’d pulled over into a clearing.  We camouflaged the car behind some tall bushes, and sat for a while to take stock of our damage.

“Yeah but when doesn’t she?” Mike chuckled, holding my arm up to clean the wound.  He emptied some cheap peroxide onto a rag and muttered that it might sting.  Then he started wrapping my wrist up in a roll of bandages he kept in the glove compartment for jobs.

I kept quiet, my eyes trained on the road, until Mike spoke.

“You did good out there, I wish I could’ve seen it first hand,”

“You don’t need to say that,” I muttered, still guilty over punching him, “All I did was pull a dumb stunt and we barely made it out there.”

“Welcome to the glamorous world of bootlegging, Jules,” he said warmly, “We’re always flying by the seat of our pants, but in the end what matters is you acted quick, you saved Chuck and you saved me.  You did what you could and what you could do was better than anything I could even think of.  You’ve got skill and heart and that’s more than enough for us.  You can help us make a difference out there Jules.  You’ve got everything we need and more.  So from here on out you’re a Burner, no matter what the others say.  You’re one of us and we take care of our own.”

I wanted to hug him.  I wanted to cry.  Instead I scrubbed at my face with my free hand and bit my lip.

“Mike, you’re awful sweet for a guy that sells booze for a living.”

“And you’ve got a nasty left hook for a city kid with noodle arms.” He cracked his jaw and held up my spindly arm, tiny and pale in his wide, dark and calloused hands.

We laughed and sat like that while Chuck was crying out in distress over the bullet holes decorating Mutts front and sides.  We waited til the sky started lightening just a little, then made our leisurely way home where Jacob would hug us all tight and admonish us for our foolishness.  Texas would praise me for the first time then forget everything I’d done the next day.  Dutch would give me a new shirt to wear and offer to help design my new car.  He’d pull out his horn and play us all a song to celebrate our collective survival while we watched the sun come up.

I remember a lot of things from that night.  The fear and joy welling up in my stomach as Mutt lifted sideways off the ground.  The smell of burning fuel and gunpowder.  The sound of Chuck’s screams as we nearly died a thousand times over.

But I’ll always cherish the sour smell of peroxide, the firm press of bandages at my wrist, and the gentle warmth of Mike’s warm palm on my skin as he welcomed me into my new family.

**Author's Note:**

> The 1927 Model A Ford was an everyman's car, and was very popular among bootleggers. It and it's cousins, the Model T's and V's operated with a "straight-six" engine, which was a rectangular engine block with six pistons. The specialty one in Mike's car is purely fiction.
> 
> Cadillacs and Rolls Royces were generally cars afforded by the rich, and while the Packard wasn't the only car used as police vehicles, I made them uniform in this story to better illustrate the separation between Mike's Ford and the cars pursuing them.
> 
> Police Officers were given a Smith & Wesson revolver as their service weapon, but during Prohibition it wasn't uncommon for cops to carry the same arms as the bootleggers they were hunting. These included Thompson submachine guns and Shotguns with the barrel sawed off. It was horrendously unethical, but also a necessity of the times.
> 
> Yes the maniac cop with a shotgun is Red.
> 
> Any historical or geographical inaccuracies are largely due to the fact that I finished this last minute, but since this is a fictional alternate Detroit in a fictional alternate 1927, I don't feel too badly about it.


End file.
